I had painted by the roadside, under an orange sky, while the joss papers burnt and smoke continued to rise. I had drawn the old banyan tree in the graveyard and urinated into the drain beside it, without a thought for the dead...
Let me talk about that eventful night, or morning, since it was already past twelve. The street was dark and deserted; there was no one around. I knelt under the street lamp, my drawing block and Chinese ink laid out on the ground, a stick or leaf in my hand. I had not brought my brushes, so I had to draw with whatever I could find. At a nearby coffee shop, Adrian and Liang Zhu were having coffee and prata. "Come back one and a half or two hours later," I told Adrian. He was driving that night... The moon shone through the ghostly roots and branches. The tree had probably stood for more than a century. I thought about the famous novel by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, "One Hundred Years of Solitude", and imagined an illustration of the banyan tree as its cover...
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Just like that i reach pandan already!
A 97 went by.
And then a 10.
Followed by a 100.
And then a 57.
A stick of djarum finished.
A 80 that doesn't stop here.
A rws8.
A 145.
And oh yes, 30 is right behind it.
And behind its probably a 143 but the 30 came first.
30 seats empty on the upper deck.
Soccer was being played on the phablet in front, and a hard time was had trying to figure out who's on which side. But soon the whistle blew. And then it alighted before play resumed.
Its already the haw par villa.
A noisy menage a trois across the aisle, a banter between patchy singlish and monosyllabic 'hur'; theirs the only punctuation in the 'rawr' of the air conditioning, the only couple seeming not to mind either in their silent contented huddle.
The others,we wait solemnly our turn,to reach our bath,the bed; and beyond that more djarums at bus stops, more waiting our turns to, rehash,replay,redo, re-each,every day,month,year until finally the clock stops.
And then a 10.
Followed by a 100.
And then a 57.
A stick of djarum finished.
A 80 that doesn't stop here.
A rws8.
A 145.
And oh yes, 30 is right behind it.
And behind its probably a 143 but the 30 came first.
30 seats empty on the upper deck.
Soccer was being played on the phablet in front, and a hard time was had trying to figure out who's on which side. But soon the whistle blew. And then it alighted before play resumed.
Its already the haw par villa.
A noisy menage a trois across the aisle, a banter between patchy singlish and monosyllabic 'hur'; theirs the only punctuation in the 'rawr' of the air conditioning, the only couple seeming not to mind either in their silent contented huddle.
The others,we wait solemnly our turn,to reach our bath,the bed; and beyond that more djarums at bus stops, more waiting our turns to, rehash,replay,redo, re-each,every day,month,year until finally the clock stops.
Monday, October 29, 2012
30 on the way back
A couple sits in front.
And in front of them another couple.
And another.
Ignoring the foreign workers half the people on this upper deck are coupled.
They smile at each other. They snuggle against the roaring air conditioning. They talk in low voices beyond the air conditioned roar.
How did they meet? Or decide to couple? Have they coupled? Did they start there? How young were they then? How long more will they go at it? Why couple? Will it hold true?
How short is a scholarship bond or handphone contract against the til death do us part of coupling; he won't change,she changed. A year may be all it takes. A new iphone. A new couple. Its faster to give her the house and stop seeing her right away.
And cheaper by far,cash on delivery. What do amateurs know? Hire professionals that will do a good job of it. After all, bus drivers and air conditioning servicemen are,too.
And in front of them another couple.
And another.
Ignoring the foreign workers half the people on this upper deck are coupled.
They smile at each other. They snuggle against the roaring air conditioning. They talk in low voices beyond the air conditioned roar.
How did they meet? Or decide to couple? Have they coupled? Did they start there? How young were they then? How long more will they go at it? Why couple? Will it hold true?
How short is a scholarship bond or handphone contract against the til death do us part of coupling; he won't change,she changed. A year may be all it takes. A new iphone. A new couple. Its faster to give her the house and stop seeing her right away.
And cheaper by far,cash on delivery. What do amateurs know? Hire professionals that will do a good job of it. After all, bus drivers and air conditioning servicemen are,too.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Dead Cat
Dead Cat
After my meditation session last Sunday, I saw a dead cat under a tree with all its entrails. I was shocked and horrified...I wanted to take a photograph of it to do art, but I did not, partly because I was scared for some unknown reason, and partly because I thought I had given up on drawing dead animals and had moved on to art that is more life-affirming and less depressing. The image haunted me for a week. Of course, when I walked past the tree this afternoon, the dead cat was no longer there.
Earlier this year, I was working on a series of dead birds, which turned out to be rather unsucessful. The works were based on the same photograph of a dead bird which had mysteriously lost its head. My works have often been labelled as morbid or depressing because they are black and they dwell on the darker side of life. Nonetheless, the dead cat screamed out at me 'This is art! This is the very substance of life itself!' I regretted not taking photographs of the dead cat, though I must admit that the entrails were too gory and revolting for anyone to bear. I wonder if the cat had died as a result of human cruelty or simply a case of bad labour. I suspect it was the latter, for who in the right mind would dissect a cat like this, except for the purpose of demon-worship?
After my meditation session last Sunday, I saw a dead cat under a tree with all its entrails. I was shocked and horrified...I wanted to take a photograph of it to do art, but I did not, partly because I was scared for some unknown reason, and partly because I thought I had given up on drawing dead animals and had moved on to art that is more life-affirming and less depressing. The image haunted me for a week. Of course, when I walked past the tree this afternoon, the dead cat was no longer there.
Earlier this year, I was working on a series of dead birds, which turned out to be rather unsucessful. The works were based on the same photograph of a dead bird which had mysteriously lost its head. My works have often been labelled as morbid or depressing because they are black and they dwell on the darker side of life. Nonetheless, the dead cat screamed out at me 'This is art! This is the very substance of life itself!' I regretted not taking photographs of the dead cat, though I must admit that the entrails were too gory and revolting for anyone to bear. I wonder if the cat had died as a result of human cruelty or simply a case of bad labour. I suspect it was the latter, for who in the right mind would dissect a cat like this, except for the purpose of demon-worship?
Jeans
Jeans (Dec 2011, edited August 2012)
A pair of legs wearing a pair of dirty worn-out jeans -- blue, brown and grey. The jeans must have survived a war or years of toil at a construction site. They must have survived barbed wires and bullets, knives and nails, thorns and teeth. They must have been soiled in mud and washed in rain. They must have seen labourers and soldiers, vagabonds and artists, prostitutes and beggars. Stained with grease and paint, torn and ripped apart at various places, stitches and patches here and there with strands of loose thread hanging, they seem to have a story to tell. The stitches remind one of wounds and scars, as well as poverty and a violent history. Never have I seen a pair of jeans so beautiful, so alive...
A pair of legs wearing a pair of dirty worn-out jeans -- blue, brown and grey. The jeans must have survived a war or years of toil at a construction site. They must have survived barbed wires and bullets, knives and nails, thorns and teeth. They must have been soiled in mud and washed in rain. They must have seen labourers and soldiers, vagabonds and artists, prostitutes and beggars. Stained with grease and paint, torn and ripped apart at various places, stitches and patches here and there with strands of loose thread hanging, they seem to have a story to tell. The stitches remind one of wounds and scars, as well as poverty and a violent history. Never have I seen a pair of jeans so beautiful, so alive...
A pair
A pair boarded the bus. And they're seated across the isle.
Chitter,chatter, about some flim flam or the other.
The kid some rows behind still emanating glassy crashes and now this pair.
Steals a sideways glance.
Spaghetti top,blue straps,low slung,chilly in strong air conditioning,well stacked. Too bad the view to the other one is blocked;the nearer one well stacked. Not too bad then.
Then they get off.
Aw shucks.
But the kid's also gone.
Peace and quiet at last,in the gripping hand.
Not too bad then.
Chitter,chatter, about some flim flam or the other.
The kid some rows behind still emanating glassy crashes and now this pair.
Steals a sideways glance.
Spaghetti top,blue straps,low slung,chilly in strong air conditioning,well stacked. Too bad the view to the other one is blocked;the nearer one well stacked. Not too bad then.
Then they get off.
Aw shucks.
But the kid's also gone.
Peace and quiet at last,in the gripping hand.
Not too bad then.
bus 51
A bill board that said "help save the fridge".
A constant stream of breaking glass sounds. Probably a kid playing angry birds or..dare i imagine? an adult playing tetris on his phone or tablet(phablet?) without the benefit of earphones. The idea that others may not find his game as entertaining as he(especially when not the player,not even observing the game being played) not even occurring. Likely a kid then. Adulthood. It supposedly manifests somewhen between the early twenties and late thirties. And then you get all concerned about other people.
Ah. That took us quite a ways down along the path. From city hall to zion road. Past a temple and some urns along the road.
Never ceases to amuse me. The Chinese ghost month. Or festival as some put it.
Yes it is festive. Maybe even more so than the new year. We're a ghost fearing people. Gods,we ask them to protect us from ghosts. Ghosts,we hold banquets in their honour. Getai to entertain them. Traditional Chinese theatre may yet become a lost art,but not while we still fear our ancestors.
But back to amusing. Nowadays they provide urns,pots or whatever they're called in public spaces to facilitate burning joss. It(along with the getais) probably irked the other races,this yearly joss burning festival;its like the Indonesian haze but made by your neighbour and perhaps smellier. It probably motivated more than a few policy scholars to write policy proposals to fine it. It may have even been passed into law or regulation at some point. But you can change laws and even governments; not ancestors, certainly not their cultural and dietary habits. And so mohamed went to the mountain and tried to encourage his people to burn joss in an adult manner.
Why don't whatever parent that belongs to that kid buy it a pair of earphones?
A constant stream of breaking glass sounds. Probably a kid playing angry birds or..dare i imagine? an adult playing tetris on his phone or tablet(phablet?) without the benefit of earphones. The idea that others may not find his game as entertaining as he(especially when not the player,not even observing the game being played) not even occurring. Likely a kid then. Adulthood. It supposedly manifests somewhen between the early twenties and late thirties. And then you get all concerned about other people.
Ah. That took us quite a ways down along the path. From city hall to zion road. Past a temple and some urns along the road.
Never ceases to amuse me. The Chinese ghost month. Or festival as some put it.
Yes it is festive. Maybe even more so than the new year. We're a ghost fearing people. Gods,we ask them to protect us from ghosts. Ghosts,we hold banquets in their honour. Getai to entertain them. Traditional Chinese theatre may yet become a lost art,but not while we still fear our ancestors.
But back to amusing. Nowadays they provide urns,pots or whatever they're called in public spaces to facilitate burning joss. It(along with the getais) probably irked the other races,this yearly joss burning festival;its like the Indonesian haze but made by your neighbour and perhaps smellier. It probably motivated more than a few policy scholars to write policy proposals to fine it. It may have even been passed into law or regulation at some point. But you can change laws and even governments; not ancestors, certainly not their cultural and dietary habits. And so mohamed went to the mountain and tried to encourage his people to burn joss in an adult manner.
Why don't whatever parent that belongs to that kid buy it a pair of earphones?
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